


The Magic Book

by shinkonokokoro



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinkonokokoro/pseuds/shinkonokokoro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anthea is really Mary Morstan. However, because of a magic book Mycroft read when he was young, he’s stolen her away and made her inaccessible to one John Watson. Because Mary’s the only woman who can steal John away from Sherlock. And Mycroft is willing to ensure his brother's happiness this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Magic Book

**Author's Note:**

> I was standing in the shower and suddenly the thought came: What if 'Anthea' is really Mary Morstan, and Mycroft's removed her so that John won't have any access to her. But then how would he know? Why, he would have to have an Arthur Conan Doyle Sherlock Holmes collection. A 'magic book,' so to speak.

 Mycroft found the magic book when he was five, had it read before he was five and a half.

He didn't revisit it until his parents introduced him to his younger brother. Sherlock.

Then he did what any astute little boy would do. He reread the book, paid careful attention to details, and opened himself a deposit box at the bank where it might be safely kept.

So when Mycroft grew up and became the government, he remembered these details and tried to let his younger brother run his course. Of course, there were some things that had to be changed. So he stepped in when there was the drugs problem. And he influenced his brother away from smoking. Influenced Lestrade towards noticing a certain bright young thing and bring him onto the scene to help solve crime.

All because of the magic book. Of course, he was too old to call it that. But because he allowed himself certain indulgences, and he never mentioned the thing to another living soul, he could call it whatever he damn well pleased.

After graduating uni, he found a certain young Mary Morstan just entering uni herself. With every intention of becoming a teacher. A few unfortunate incidents with children later, and she'd quite changed her mind to something else entirely. Mycroft was quite ready to let her go, however, seeing that she was quick with technology, he had her brought into the fold and had her trained in several languages, coding languages, as well as governmental policy. She was a dream. Besides. If he kept her by his side, there was certainly no way one John Watson would ever get his hands on her. She would find him dull and not worth his time, and he wouldn't pursue. Much.

John Watson.

The book told him that John Watson was indispensable to Sherlock Holmes. The two flat-shared, and lived many years of their lives together (albeit in a bit of a different time when their love was something that was quite unacceptable). Until Mary Morstan. And if the tone that Mycroft had carefully gleaned from the text was anything to go by, then his brother would come to care very much for the doctor. The doctor would settle his brother and go on cases with him, helping him, patient with him as he'd seen no other man be. He might have even gone so far as to call it love. But Mycroft was more practical than that.

And seeking to see his brother stabilised, he sought out Doctor John Watson. Unfortunately, the name was a common one, and before he'd found him, the man had already sent himself off to Afghanistan. Mycroft allowed himself the indulgence of cursing. And tried to keep his brother stable in lieu of the doctor.

It worked. For a short while. Sherlock frequently got himself into trouble, Mycroft solving it as best he could. Before he knew it, he had word of the doctor's homecoming. Shot, of all things. And while he was busy following the trail of where he'd been sent, Sherlock went and found him himself. Quite by accident.

At his earliest convenience, Mycroft waylaid the man (testing him with 'Anthea,' and finding the situation very much managed) and brought him somewhere private where they might talk. The man was more soldier than he expected. And upon questioning, entirely unimpressed. He was _perfect_. Mycroft let him go. 

Then of course, John promptly saved his brother's life. Mycroft cursed himself on that lack of attention to detail—of course it was the 'A Study in Scarlet' case. Jefferson Hope. How had he not seen it sooner. Mycroft went back to the bank and scoured the book again.

One thing he knew. He would have to be sure his brother never went to Switzerland. He shuddered. While it was a game, it was a dangerous one, and he couldn't let things fall to chance. After all, the doctor-soldier's welfare depended on it now as well. As he'd proven, he could pick up whatever slack Mycroft left concerning his brother. Purpose-driven  _and_ effective. Mycroft liked him. 

Mycroft dropped by to see Sherlock. John was there. It was quite the image of domestic bliss. By his brother's standards. And Sherlock, he could see, clearly was developing emotions for this fellow. He almost smiled a real smile in his brother's presence. Things were progressing perfectly. 'Anthea' was in no way attracted to one John Watson now that she had a more exciting life with her current profession. Sherlock was very much enamoured with John Watson, and John Watson seemed to be very much the same with Sherlock, despite the dates he on which he insisted. Sherlock usually saw fit to take care of those himself. And efficiently. 

Then came along John's 'Blind Banker' case and Mycroft was thrown entirely. None of this happened in his magic book. If his changing things had progressed too far, then the information from the book might end up being useless. There were various bits from what happened to other cases that he had read, but, all in all, it was largely useless. In the end, of course, Sherlock was fine. John was fine, and everyone was still happy. Except of course for John because of his unfathomable bad luck with women. Mycroft refrained from interfering. 

He tracked John's and Sherlock's movement carefully through Sherlock's website and John's blog. And of course the CCTV cameras and the intranet at the Yard. When the information of the pips came to light, Mycroft very carefully did his digging. Moriarty. The final problem. No. The Final Problem. Could not be allowed to happen.

Everything was, in the vernacular, all fucked up. Mycroft put himself to work and gathered information until his eyes rolled round in his head.

He wasn't quick enough to save John. Which, in turn, made him slow on intercepting his brother. Sherlock was off to take to task the instructions with which Mycroft had left him. He hadn't intended on his brother to follow through. And then they were at the pool. Luckily events had taken a different track than the one he had feared (water was never a good sign), and he was able to breathe a sigh of relief as his brother and his flat-mate were safe. But only just. 

Mycroft stepped up his game.

“A Scandal in Belgravia,” John Watson said. 'A Scandal in Bohemia,' Mycroft knew. That one was easier. The Woman was easily identifiable. However, her role was somewhat askew from what Mycroft had expected. Still, he knew Sherlock was impressed by her intelligence, and was saddened to fake the information that placed her in America. He was then suitably impressed with his _brother's_ out-manoeuvring of him in that the information was not fake, and Irene was, in fact, escaped to the states. 

Things were going well.

His brother was showing more attachments to John Watson, and John was having less and less luck keeping a woman around for any significant length of time. None of them had the patience for his devotion to Mycroft's brother. He was pleased. 

Lurking, however, was the knowledge that they had not seen the last of Moriarty. Mycroft had every available resource searching for him, but the man had gone to ground and was invisible and thus, untouchable. Endlessly infuriating. 

The Hound case was a pleasant departure from Sherlock's norm. Mycroft refused to be lulled into a false sense of security, and kept his eyes open for signs of Moriarty's meddling. 

Meanwhile, John seemed to have given up on a girlfriend and was responding to his brother's overtures more and more, if the scene in Buckingham was to be believed. 

Then his heart nearly stopped as his brother recovered a painting, subject matter peculiarly featuring Reichenbach Falls. But nothing happened, save for his brother's name suddenly becoming household. 

Something which obviously irritated his brother. His anonymity was gone. Something he knew Sherlock of reality and of the magic book valued. There was, however, nothing he could do. Mycroft could not, in the day and age of the internet, retract information, as quickly as it was spread. 

Then, of course, Moriarty re-enters the scene. 

Mycroft grit his teeth.

The court case was  _such_ a farce. 

Interfering with the man himself hadn't done any good at all either.

After that, everything seemed to escalate and before Mycroft could seize any sort of control over the situation, Moriarty was set free and Sherlock was accused of being false, and John Watson at his side wasn't enough to save him. Sherlock was...no more. 

This was.... This was not how things were supposed to happen. Sherlock had been nowhere _near_ the Falls. Nowhere near water. Just... Just too near to pavement. And a man who was now dead on top of the selfsame building from which his brother had leapt. It was unthinkable. 

The funeral. It had been unreal. Another farce. The magic book hadn't promised this. There was no way that a human could fake a death such as this one. John Watson had seen him fall. The death had been confirmed and signed. Death by internal haemorrhage. Shock and blood loss.

Now John Watson was broken, his brother was lost. If one chose to look at a 'bright' side of the matter, one might say that at least Moriarty was dead. 

Mycroft might have thought these things. However, he was too busy, ripping through the pages of his magic book, at the false promises that Sherlock would, and  _could_ return. What about 'The Adventure of the Empty House?' Mycroft scoured the book for answers that it couldn't give. 

Mary eventually came to collect him from the bank, took him home, and stayed with him until he could fall asleep. She was back in the morning when he woke. He left for the club, sitting with the papers that all defamed his brother's name. 

With nothing left to protect, Mycroft suffered a bit of an anxiety attack until Mary put him on the right track of protecting John and fulfilling his actual position. Mary volunteered to see to John. Of course he put her off it, telling her he needed her to go to Asia and take care of some business with the consulate. She rolled her eyes but went where bid.

So followed the trend. Mycroft stopping by to sit amongst his brothers things, including one morose and depressed John Watson. Solving the government's problems. Avoiding the bank entirely. Settling into a life with less purpose. 

Until his brother came back to life. 

Mycroft had said before, to John, that it would take Sherlock Holmes to fool him. And little had he known his words to become gospel. He should have taken the Woman to heart. But all evidence had pointed to a rather spectacular end, one that even John Watson had believed. A man who believed the best of his brother through the end and out the other side. 

Mycroft lived vicariously through John in the bruise that Sherlock sported on his jaw. Smiling a bit smugly, he settled himself in his usual chair to visit 221B Baker street, and waited for his brother to explain himself. “You owe it to me,” he said viciously. John fumed quietly in the background, ever the soldier, arms folded fiercely across that chest, eyes levelled solely on Sherlock.

He left satisfied.

Some months later, Mycroft had the unfortunate pleasure of walking in on his brother snogging the doctor-soldier, walked back out, and treated Mary to her favourite restaurant for supper. 

Things were, apparently, back on track. 

There were more cases. More years. More injuries. More nemeses. More danger. More gunshots. More hospital bills.

And, Mycroft was glad to see, through it all, more love. Sherlock depended on John like no one before, not even Mycroft. And John was so thoroughly permeated by Sherlock Holmes that he no longer could think of dating another, much less leave. 

Later, Mycroft had the esteemed pleasure of being his brother's best man at their wedding, and then the godfather of their adopted child. When the move to Sussex happened, Mycroft had seen it coming, and gladly helped move Sherlock, John, and Ham out of 221B. 

Once they were settled, he tendered his resignation and took Mary around the world. She had faithfully stayed by him and supported him always. He owed her that, in the end. She didn't seem to miss her happy ending into mundanity, so he didn't feel too poorly over his decisions. All in all, everything had been rather successful, and he could applaud his efforts towards his brother's safety as well as the gift of his happiness. Sherlock and John. Together. Complimentary. Complete. 


End file.
